Highland Enchantment (Highland Brides) (15 page)

They awoke some hours later and lay in silence.

The air felt normal, devoid of the horrid crushing terror that had overcome them.

"I've no more time to waste," Rachel said softly. "At the next opportunity I will go to the laird of the nearest estate and plead for help."

"A laird," Liam said. Fear was like a bitter taste in his mouth. Death had been so close. His death.
Her
death.

"Aye. I'll explain my plight and beg for assistance."

"And because he is wealthy, you think he will be willing to help you?"

She didn't answer.

Anger spurred through him. "Warwick was wealthy!" he rasped. "A favored advisor to kings.

But maybe you don't believe that. You think that because a man be born in a castle instead of a hovel, he is trustworthy? Trustworthy enough to tell the truth, while you spew your lies to me?"

"I did not lie to you!"

"Truly? Then your betrothed must be a phenomenal lover to put you in such a rush to reach him."

"Forgive me if I'm in a hurry to reach safety."

"Just because a man has wealth and power does not mean he will give you safety."

"Dressing as a lad has been less than successful!" she snapped.

Liam exhaled sharply, relieving his tension by slow increments. "I'll not ask you to pretend to be a lad again."

"Truly?" He watched her close her eyes, watched her slowly relax. There was nothing he wanted more at that moment than to pull her into his arms. To promise all would be well. But he was not so foolish.

"Truly," he said. "You made a pathetically poor lad. I've a better plan in mind."

Rachel rose abruptly to her feet. The woods were quiet. Too quiet, and her time there alone too long. Where was Liam? She held her breath, trying to see through the foliage, but night was coming on.

She'd busied herself by building a fire and gathering a few herbs. She'd even come across a patch of wild leeks, but even if she had an appropriate pot, she'd not dare put them on to cook. Their aromatic scent might well draw unwanted attention, and despite her revulsion at the knowledge, she realized she felt horribly vulnerable since Liam's exit some hours earlier.

A twig snapped. She spun toward the noise, her heart beating overtime and her breath coming hard.

"Did you miss me?"

She squawked like a snared peahen, jumping and twisting about at the same time as she tried to see behind her.

Liam laughed out loud. "You weren't scared were you?"

"Nay," she said, but her voice shook. "And where the devil have you been so long?"

He grinned. "Fetching our supper."

"Supper?" She tried not to sound too wistful. But her stomach was cramped with hunger and just the sight of the bag he held in his hand made her mouth water. Still, she had some pride and lifted her chin to stare at him. "Where'd you get it?"

"Tis the duty of every good monk to feed the hungry."

"You stole it," she surmised.

He stared at her, his expression shocked. "I am much offended."

"You stole it," she repeated.

"I did not," he denied. "And more's the pity." Jiggling the empty pouch he'd stolen from the enraged husband, he frowned. "I used the last coin in our possession."

"You actually paid for it?" she asked, reaching for the bag.

He handed it over with a scowl. "You could, at least, pretend you're not shocked."

They reached the next village sometime on the following day. It was a fair-sized town. Bustling with activity, it was much livelier than Liam felt. They hadn't eaten since supper the night before, and his stomach complained vociferously.

He'd finally convinced Rachel to wear the garments he'd purchased. He was certain no one who knew her either by sight or reputation would easily recognize her in the gown. It was a bold garment, garish red with slashed sleeves, and a low, laced bodice. Not the sort of thing one would think to find at a monastery. But the bulky man's tunic Rachel had insisted on donning beneath the gown made it quite modest. Ugly, but modest. And the limp, drooping coif did nothing to improve the ensemble.

"How do you plan to obtain food?" she asked as they passed an inn. Crafted of slate gray stone, it boasted a listing sign and a single drunk who reeled out onto the street.

"Tis a lively town," Liam said, skimming a nearby crowd hopefully. "I'm certain to get some interest with me juggling, if I but—"

"Don't be shy!" someone yelled. "Tis plenty of room for you to see. Come along, squeeze in closer. See Catriona, the king's favorite entertainer."

Liam growled and stepping onto a nearby stone fence, gazed over the heads of the crowds. "The gypsies have stolen my line."

Rachel joined him. On the far side of the crowd, a young woman, graceful as a bending willow, leapt onto a cart and raised her hands to the crowd.

"Welcome one and all," she cried. Her elfin face beamed down at the gathering near her feet.

Her costume, Liam had to admit, showed all her finest qualities.

Her arms were bare but for a tiny sleeve that capped her golden shoulders. Her bodice, though not low, was taut across her bosom, and her waist was cinched to impossible proportions.

"As I said, how do you plan to buy food?" Rachel repeated dryly.

"She may have prettier..." Liam paused for a moment, still staring. "Everything, than I do. Still, I'm certain I'm a better entertainer than..."

But just at that moment, the girl launched forward, tucked into a ball and spun over the side of the cart.

Liam's jaw dropped as, just at the last second, she stretched out her leonine body, only to be caught in the arms of a bare-chested man who stood by apparently just for that purpose.

"You were saying?" Rachel asked.

"I'm a hell of a pickpocket," Liam murmured, starring at the couple who grinned broadly out at their audience.

She raised her brows at him. He could barely see them beneath the sagging folds of her soiled coif. God, it was a homely thing.

He cleared his throat. "Stay here."

"Where are you going?"

"To take a look around."

"In people's pouches?"

"So jaded," he said, feigned disappointment rife in his voice as he stepped down from the fence. If theft was what was required, he certainly was not above such an approach.

Rachel lowered herself to sit on the rough stone. If he wanted to get himself killed it was fine by her. She was not his keeper. Indeed, she was not even his friend. All he did was bedevil her at every turn. Had it not been for him, she probably would still be safely with her guards. She was a fool to listen to his ravings. Warwick was dead.

For a moment the memory of the terror in the woods gripped her but she shoved it aside.

Fatigue and Liam's wild tales would frighten anyone, she told herself.

Surely she would be entirely better off without...

Just at that instant a flash of pain sliced through her mind, numbing her for a moment. But it was not her pain.

"Liam." She whispered his name, her heart thudding wildly in her chest. And then, in her mind's eye she saw him crumpled on the ground, his face bloody. A bear of a man loomed over him, his bald head shining, his shoulders hunched. "Liam," she whimpered again, and glanced wildly about, but she could see him only in her thoughts.

Panic spurred through her. She lunged into the depths of the crowd.

"Liam," she called, but her voice was lost in the melee.

She pressed on, fear and premonition driving her. And then, above the heads of the crowd, she saw a huge man with a shiny pate and a wolf-skin vest.

"Nay!" she rasped, and without thought, without hesitation, threw herself forward.

People parted reluctantly before her as she shoved them aside. Panic galloped in her chest.

A man stepped to the side and suddenly she saw Liam, saw his hand streak out and draw back, saw the huge man scowl and turn.,

"Nay," Rachel cried, and throwing herself forward, collided with the huge man. She ricocheted off his chest like a sparrow on a windowpane. Her bottom struck the earth and her coif torpedoed from her head. Hair tumbled wildly across her face.

"What the devil are y' doing?" asked the big man. But in an instant, his eyes narrowed and the muscles in his bare arms bunched like striking snakes. Bending over, he snatched a pouch from the ground. "You were stealing my purse."

Rachel froze, her eyes popping and a denial frozen in her throat.

"A little thief," he said.

Panic seared through her. She tried to scramble backward on her hands and feet, but his arms went on forever. He reached out, grabbed her gown and tunic in one huge hand and yanked her to her feet.

Rachel sagged from his fist, every nerve atremble and her breasts rising and falling like windy bellows beneath his knuckles.

His gaze, dark as hell, skimmed her.

"You be a devil of a poor thief. But maybe you have other talents, aye?"

"I'm not a thief!" Her voice was no more than a whisper. "I simply... ran into you in my rush.

Your purse must have popped out when I struck you."

He tightened his grip on her bodice and his mouth twisted as if she had made some poor attempt at a jest.

"And where were you off to in such a rush, wench?"

She tried to find her voice, but it was long gone. The crowd had moved aside. Faces turned toward her. She could feel their expectant gaze burn into her.

"Or were you in a hurry to see me?"

"I—I..."

"Aye?" He grinned into her face, happy with his cleverness. "Well, I'm eager to oblige you," he said, and began pulling her through the crowd.

"Nay!" she shrieked.

"Then you'd best tell me where you were bound in such a rush, or I'll be finding my own destination for you," he said, turning back.

"I was..." It was impossible to breathe. She skimmed her eyes sideways, searching for help and finding nothing but the Gypsy's small elfin face. "I was about to perform."

The huge man reared back slightly, his mouth still twisted. "You're with
them?"

She stared at him, terrified and paralyzed. "Aye," she said, and managed a stilted nod.

He glanced up and down at her mismatched garments, noting how her black, mannish tunic bunched messily beneath the laces of the garish red gown. "In that garb?"

She raised her chin and tried to look haughty. But there was little hope of that.

"And what do you do then, lass?" he asked, stepping closer still. She could smell him, the melded odor of old sweat and cheap ale.

"I..." What? A dozen possibilities snapped through her mind. Juggling, magic, acrobatics! Dear God, she couldn't even sing. "Dance!" she gasped.

"What?" The gargantuan man canted his head and narrowed obsidian eyes.

"I dance."

There was a moment of absolute silence, before, "Let's see it, then," he said.

Her feet were frozen to the earth, the breath stuck in her throat. She'd be lucky if she could walk.

"You cannot expect her to dance without music."

Liam!

She snapped her gaze to him as he stepped to the perimeter of the crowd. He turned his eyes to hers for a fraction of an instant, then back to her tormentor's.

"Who are you?"

"I'm her brother."

"I think you lie, little man. You look nothing like her."

"And you look nothing like a human, yet I'm not calling you a liar," Liam said.

The huge fellow growled low in his throat, dropped his hold on Rachel, and turned ominously toward Liam.

"Nay!" Rachel screamed, but the word was drowned in the reedy trill of a pipe.

The huge man swiveled toward the sound.

Rachel held her breath then turned too.

Standing at the edge of the crowd an old woman stood with a pipe to her wrinkled lips. Above the instrument, her eyes were as sharp and wily as those of a red fox. Rachel caught her gaze, and for a moment the world stood still. There was nothing suddenly, except this old woman and her entrancing eyes.

"So dance!" the huge man demanded.

Rachel pulled her gaze from the old woman's. She was breathing hard and her heart was pumping like a running horse in her chest, but she forced herself to take a few tentative steps.

The music played faster.

Rachel grasped her clumsy skirt in one hand and turned. The gown, heavy with muddy water, slapped between and around her legs, nearly tripping her up. She straightened with an effort.

All eyes were on her now. She could feel the attention like the heat of a flame, but it was too late to turn back, so she twirled again, trying to find the rhythm.

Faster and faster she moved. One shoe flew off. She stumbled, but terror drove her on until finally the music fell into ear-shattering silence.

Rachel careened to a halt, her head still spinning.

Her huge tormentor clenched his fists and took a step toward her.

"Tis enough of a free show for now, girl," said the old woman. Her voice creaked in the sudden stillness.

Rachel turned silently toward her.

"Get yourself to the wagon and stay out of trouble." The ancient eyes shifted to Liam. "You too, boy."

But Liam still stared at the huge man before him, every muscle taut as the other watched Rachel.

"Start another fight, laddie, and I'll whip you myself," snapped the old woman. "You're becoming more trouble than you're worth to me."

Liam turned his gaze to the matron, stared at her for a moment, then, stepping forward, pulled Rachel toward the wagon.

There were a few moments of silence then, "What the devil did you think you were doing?"

Liam hissed in her ear.

"Saving your hide." Every nerve was still jumping as he towed her away from the crowd.

"If you'd saved me any more, you'd a been raped and I'd a been dead!"

"Children!" snapped the old woman from close behind. "Shut your mouths and get inside the wagon before you get us all killed."

The wagon was narrow, high-sided, and covered with a painted tarp. A cage of sticks contained two tiny yellow finches near the small door through which Liam pushed Rachel.

The interior was dim and cool, crowded with the things necessary for life on the road—pans, trunks, clothes hung on pegs on the wall, blankets rolled up in the corners.